A Bitch In Time (Marina: Part One: Naughty Nookie Series) Read online

  And by we, I mean me, charging in there like Dirty Harry on estrogen patches with my nice, big nine-millimeter pistol.

  I have a few high-ranking officers of the law in my little black book, but I prefer to deal with these issues in-house as it were.

  A few men have offered me exorbitant sums to be able to walk down peep-hall, as Anna and I call it. But privacy is part and parcel of the service we offer. Even though it hurt to turn down fifty grand to let a voyeur get his rocks off by peering through a window, I had no choice. I had to think of the money I’d have lost if the guy weren’t a voyeur, but some kind of political spy.

  What goes down in these rooms could make or break the government itself. We get all sorts here. From the rich to the astronomically powerful. They pay the sums they do to ensure their perversions are kept hushed up. Not once has anyone’s dirty little secret been revealed to the public. And that makes my business a hot commodity.

  It’s been a busy day, a stressful evening and the night looks set to be just as frantic. Each room is booked until three in the morning, I’m already tired and it’s just turned midnight!

  Yawning, I wander down to the next room and look through the window. Until I started this gig, until the peep-hall existed, I didn’t realize I had voyeuristic tendencies of my own. But I guess most people do, they just don’t have the opportunities I do to get my kicks.

  There’s one girl in particular that does it for me every time. And it isn’t her, although she’s an attractive woman, it’s the service she offers. Known as the ‘Queen of Deepthroat’, you can guess where Millie’s talent lies!

  Pulling out my cellphone, I flicker through the appointment schedule and a smile hovers over my lips as I notice two things. Firstly, that two doors down, Mike Baylis is with Millie and the entrepreneur has one of the hugest cocks I’ve ever seen. Aside from that, he’s a decent guy. Always pleasant when he pays the bill and quick to give me punts on the stock market.

  Watching Millie swallow that huge ten-incher is enough to turn anyone on! Well, it is now. I remember just standing there, feeling like I’d been kicked in the head, wondering where the hell she put it all the very first time I watched!

  The second thing to widen my smile is in four days and counting, I’ll be seeing Nathan.

  The thought of watching Mike and knowing that soon I’ll be with Nathan, is enough to have every part of me quivering with hunger.

  There’s a spring in my step as I wander down the hallway. Anna, my PA, is into the Femdom act more than I am, whereas I prefer to watch the Dom/sub role-plays.

  Rosalie is one of my most popular girls and she’s in the Grunge Dungeon.

  There are two BDSM rooms at Papillon; one is all heavy-duty hardware with an industrial edge to the design. Pipes, handcuffs, ropes and rudimentary equipment, where the guy gets off on the more brutal side of the scene. The other is more traditional.

  Leather and whips, PVC, St Andrew’s Crosses…

  The Grunge Dungeon is the former.

  Glancing into the peephole, the first thing to pop into my line of sight is a bright red, and I mean bright —it’s almost glowing— butt. I wince at the sight and cup my own ass in commiseration. The other girl, Jessie, is totally in it for the money. Whereas Rosalie is a born sub. She gets off on this stuff.

  Her butt is wiggling around as her Dom for the next two hours, a corporate lawyer from downtown with a client list to end all client lists, spanks her with a flogger.

  Faint mewls escape her throat, as she wriggles and writhes. Her hips jerk about in an angular dance to avoid the pain. But Johnson, the attorney, is having none of it.

  Her legs are spread to an uncomfortable degree something that only adds to the awkwardness of her pain-evasion dance. She’s balancing on the balls of her feet, toes arched off the floor with two heavy-duty cuffs about her ankles and a bar keeping the awkward distance between her thighs. She’s bent over a pole —something that’s almost like a ballet dancer’s barre but five feet away from the wall— at a perfect right angle. With her butt in my direct line of sight, her pussy is too. Rosalie is bare. Smoother than silk. But at the moment, bright-red whip lines mar the silken skin.

  I always feel both turned on and discomforted by these scenes. A part of me wants to bring a halt to the proceedings. How can Rosalie be enjoying this? How can this be anything other than torture? But she has never said her safe word. Not once in the four years of the business being open.

  The dungeons are the only rooms with speakers. We only switch them on, when a girl is in there and only so that we can be aware of her rescinding her consent for whatever shit is going down with the client.

  Anna would have sent me a message if Rosalie had even whispered her safe word—tomato. The speakers were sensitive. They picked up the sound of a footstep. And they’d cost me a bloody fortune! Worth it, though. A guy had once been on the brink of strangling Jessie, when she’d managed to squeak out her safe word and we’d saved her.

  Even with all our security protocols, accidents can and do happen.

  The part of this scene that turns me on is the sheer in-your-face brazenness of it all. As I look, a huge, bright green dildo separates the tender lips of Rosalie’s pussy. Lodged deep inside, with every wiggle and jerk of her hips, it flops about and moves to a rhythm of its own.

  Despite myself, watching Johnson and Rosalie, I can feel my own blood start to heat. At the very start of this venture, I often wondered if I was a pervert. Now, I realize I’m just human. Someone who reacts to blatant visual stimuli and Christ, you’d have to be dead from the waist down to not react.

  Just in front of the neon green vibrator, I can see a piece of clit jewelry dangling down and before that, two bobbing, weighted balls hang suspended from Rosalie’s breasts. While I’d never want to be in that position and I really mean that, it’s still a turn on.

  As I watch the jiggling dildo, the wriggling hips of one of my most popular girls, my body urges me into action. My fingers curl into claws in an attempt at self-restraint and only after I suck in a breath and force the feeling away, do they settle for a quick pinch of my nipple, which has budded through my white silk shirt.

  The slight sting makes me wish Nate were here. That I didn’t have to wait what seems like an endless amount of time until I see him again. You’d think after all the sex I see on an hourly basis; I’d get sick of it. But I don’t. If anything, I appreciate it all the more.

  My mouth waters as Johnson releases his cock from the leather cage that is his fly. His big fist wraps around the meaty length of his erection and he jerks it, tugging the foreskin back and forth a few times, before he strides over to the barre and ducks underneath.

  I have to look away as he pushes it into Rosalie’s mouth. Not because I’m disgusted, not because I’m revolted, but because my belly is churning and not with sickness.

  Clenching my jaw, I move away from the peephole and force myself to walk down the hall. It’s only because my visit with Nate is so close that I’m feeling this way. Still, it’s damned hard to walk away.

  Cell in hand, I type out a text.

  Nate isn’t really one for mobile technology. For the most part, he leaves his cell uncharged and on the top of his dresser with his loose change. Still, he turns it on every day, because he knows I send him messages.

  Wish you were here, Nate. I’ve got an itch only you can scratch. M x

  I leave it semi PG-rated. I’ve never been one for dirty talk, even if I wish that weren’t the case. Writing dirty is even harder, so I keep it clean and send the text.

  It’s an understatement saying that I wish he were here. I’ve really missed him these last few months.

  Usually, I get on with my life and he with his. We do our thing and then, meet up every so often. We’re both happy to do that. But it’s been tough recently. I’ve wanted to talk, wanted to connect. I can’t help but question what’s changed.

  What’s different about these last three months to the other times
in our five-year-long, long distance relationship…?

  I wish I had the answer.

  I dislike change.

  Grumbling, I head down to the next peephole and look through. After spotting Eloise sitting on her lonesome, I close the peephole and open the door.

  “What’s up, Lou?”

  Most of the rooms are styled in the minimalistic way. All harsh, linear edges, but some, like this one, are uniquely decorated. I wanted this to be all soft femininity and it’s very popular with our female guests.

  Think creamy pastels with floral-patterned wallpapers and soft furnishings. Lou is laying on the comforter, fully dressed, legs crossed at the ankle, back propped against the cushioned headrest and she’s filing her nails.

  Her eyes dart up to meet mine and she smiles in greeting. “Client had to dash off. Emergency meeting.”

  “Not bad. You get the fee without having to do a damned thing.”

  Her smile widens into a grin. “Yep. I’d have a nap, but it would mean having to change afterwards and re-do my make-up. I can’t be bothered.”

  Wandering over to the bed, I perch on the side but lean back on my hands to stare out into Manhattan’s midnight skyline. A view perfectly framed by thick, swathes of fabric surrounding a picture window. “Don’t blame you. Who’s your next client?”

  I don’t need to look at her to see her smug grin. “David Asprey.”

  I blow out a low whistle. “Someone’s in for a huge tip.”

  “Ha, that isn’t the only thing. He likes his girls to get off.”

  “Too much information, Lou,” I tease and turn to wink at her.

  She pulls out her tongue. “The day we can shock you, Marina, is a day the world will end!”

  “Well, that’s some statement. I’m sure there’s some shit that could shock me.”

  “I can’t imagine what that might be.” She leans forward and grabs my shoulder. “I meant to ask you earlier, but I forgot. I need to get to class next Wednesday and I have two appointments booked.”

  “Okay, I’ll rearrange the schedule. Were they special requests?” Sometimes clients requested a certain girl. Rescheduling could be a bitch.

  “No. But it’s my day and Anna told me two had booked in.” Most clients visited on an appointment only basis, because they wanted a specific girl. Sometimes, they booked, wanting potluck on whichever woman they’d get. Every shift, a different woman would accommodate the non-specified bookings.

  “No worries, I’ll sort it. Exam?” I ask, cautiously. Eloise is one of the girls currently taking a Masters in Botany, but this year, things haven’t been so good on the education-front. Lou is having an affair with her professor and Anna says it’s getting serious.

  Either she’ll have to end the relationship, or admit what she does for a living.

  These last few weeks, Eloise hasn’t been happy so Anna and I aren’t sure which route she selected. Neither path has a tendency to end happily.

  She snorts. “During the summer break?”

  “How the hell do I know, Lou?” I shrug. “Why do you need time off for class, if class has broken up until September?”

  “I failed my last set of exams. I need extra tuition.”

  “Okay.” My reply is non-judgmental, unquestioning.

  “Just like that?” She shakes her head. “Even after all these years, you surprise the hell out of me, Marina.”

  I turn to her with a smile. “It’s why you all love me.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “We do. We probably don’t thank you enough for letting us get away with blue murder.”

  “No, I have a hard life, don’t I? Shepherding you all about.” Her squeeze turns into a light punch and with a laugh, I stand. For a second I stare down at her then murmur softly, “If this thing with the professor doesn’t work out, Lou, you know I’m here, right?”

  Her smile disappears and for a minute, the twenty-five year old woman looks fifteen. She’s a beauty. All blond hair, big blue eyes and a figure that could be too thin, but she wafts around like a fairy. Her delicacy is one of the reasons she’s popular with clients.

  She shouldn’t have to sell her body for a living. She shouldn’t have to consider breaking off a relationship with a decent guy, because of her past and what she's had to do to survive. But that’s life. And those are the hands it deals us.

  Doesn’t make it fair, though.

  “Thanks, Marina.” Her eyes drop down to look at her lap for a second, her teeth start nibbling her bottom lip. “I told him what I do.”

  Despite myself, I’m shocked. It’s a rare occurrence to share the truth of the profession with a man. It means the relationship was a hell of a lot more serious than Lou had let on.

  From her face, I gather it didn’t go well. I take another seat and turn to her. “If you need to talk…” I break off, not wanting to pry into a difficult situation. I know what it feels like to put hopes, dreams, and aspirations into a guy, then for life to come and blow them away as though they were autumn leaves in a faint breeze.

  “He wouldn’t talk to me for a few weeks and now, he’s on the reformation deal.” She sucks in a quivery breath, an inhalation so deep her whole body rattles with it. I’ve never seen Eloise so cut up by a guy. More often than not, she gets excited over a new trinket she has bought. Not a boyfriend. He, whoever he is, the Professor, is special.

  That in itself is a miracle.

  My girls have seen and done too much to trust men easily. The Professor is a lucky bastard. He just needs to realize it.

  I pull a face at her comment and sigh. “They always want to reform. It’s instinct, honey.”

  “I know.” She studies her nails, this time. Choosing to look at anything but me.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rolling my eyes at her, I mock, “I know, I don’t know… that’s not my Eloise. If you want out, don’t worry about Papillon or letting me down. It’s your life, honey. You have to grab the happiness it offers you. The opportunities are few and far between.”

  Her eyes finally bridge mine and there’s a soft understanding there. A few girls know about my past and Eloise is one of them. She knows about Jimmy. About his cancer. About the rushed marriage, our parents agreed to, knowing that it would end badly, but still supporting our decision to be man and wife, when the end came.

  Lou lifts a hand towards me for me to catch. “It was the anniversary a few weeks ago, wasn’t it? Twelve years, right? We all knew, but we didn’t want to say anything. Didn’t want to upset you.”

  And like that, the difference all makes sense.

  For the last twelve years, I’ve mourned Jimmy’s passing. As though it were yesterday and not more than a decade.

  But not this year.

  This year, I just got on with it. Like it was any other day.

  The realization has a sharp pain splicing through my stomach.

  “Thanks, Lou. And yeah. Twelve years.” I nod; my head won’t stop the rocking motion for a few seconds. Almost as though it’s soothing to my muddled senses.

  How have twelve years passed since I last saw Jimmy and yet, I didn’t even mourn him on the day of his death? I try to think, try to remember if I even thought of him that day. If he crossed my mind at all.

  That I can’t say a definite yes or no has me feeling sick.

  “If he’s worthy of you, honey, then do what you have to do. Tell me if you need some time off, whatever, I’ll rearrange it.”

  Before she can reply, I stalk out of the room, ignoring her concerned shout. My ears aren’t working, my mind isn’t fully functioning. As soon as I’m outside, I press my back to the wall and let it support me.

  Before I have a chance to get my head around the revelation that my memories of Jimmy, his importance in my life, are taking a back seat to my desire of being with Nate, my cellphone buzzes. The slight vibration makes my hand tingle and jolts me from my thoughts.

  “Peeping, Anna.”
r />   That’s code for, ‘I can’t talk. I’m peering into the in-use rooms to make sure all is safe and well.’

  “The Russians have sent another message.”

  Just what I needed.

  Two

  Shit.

  There’s always something else to dampen your day. Or in this case, year. A serpent in my paradise, the local Russian mob have made it their business to try and buy me out of this lucrative little set up I’m running. No is not an answer they appreciate.

  In fact, appreciate is the wrong word. They’re deaf to any response they don’t want to hear.

  My teeth grind down to the point of pain, but I hiss out, “There in two secs.”

  These guys have always been a nuisance, but they’re getting worse. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to get scared.

  Fear isn’t an emotion I’m used to experiencing. It isn’t in my nature to be frightened of anything. I was bred to be strong, independent, and fearless. My genes wouldn’t allow me to be anything other than bull-headed and take-charge.

  So, to be on the other end of the scale, to feel as though I’m being herded in a particular direction, doesn’t make me a happy chappy. In fact, it pisses me off. But there’s nothing I can do, just wait and see what goes down.

  Accustomed to controlling my world, waiting around feels like a death knell. Something that can only be deemed as appropriate, considering I received my first threat two days ago.

  The situation is rapidly spinning out of control and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  My footsteps are heavy thumps, not the quiet whispers they should be as I retreat from the peep-hall toward the outer offices. I’m hard-pressed not to slam the door, but training stops me. We sell fantasies here at Papillon and bouts of adolescent door-slamming and foot-stamping are not part of that package.

  More’s the pity.

  My office is large; more of a sitting room than anything else with all the comforts of home, because this is where I live.

  It’s split into two parts. One part is the work area. A large oval walnut desk occupies half of the space, ridged at the back and raised so that there are five compartments running along the outer rim of the table. Behind it is a custom-made ergonomic chair that looks like it belongs back in Regency England without the spine trauma. It cost a fortune, but it’s comfortable thanks to modern technology, and fits in with my décor. An old-fashioned filing cabinet, one that took me an age to track down in an antique store, is to the left of the desk.